


Rough Edges

by hootowl



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Challenge Response, Drama, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, New Identity!Harry, No Slash, Out of Character, Potions and Snitches
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-28
Updated: 2018-06-28
Packaged: 2019-05-30 02:59:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15087515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hootowl/pseuds/hootowl
Summary: A cleared-of-all charges Sirius Black disowns Harry from the Potter and Black lines for acting in a un-Potter like fashion. (a response to the Disowned challenge)





	1. Cleared

**Author's Note:**

> I was originally writing this for a Spring Fic Fest...maybe two years ago now... Yeah, didn't happen, but here it is!

Easter Holidays were behind them and they were rapidly heading toward end of term exams — if one listened to Hermione. It was still pretty early in April so, according Ron and Harry, they had _plenty_ of time to worry about revising at a later date. Or, preferably, not worry about exams at all. With the DA betrayed and disbanded, Harry had nothing to occupy his thoughts and Hermione’s nagging about the importance of exams wasn’t enough to distract him from his morose state.

Harry sighed, absently pushing his eggs around his plate. The year was nearly over and so far it was nearly as terrible as the one before it. Though it’d be difficult to be worse than Voldemort’s return _and_ the murder of a student, Umbridge was making her best attempt. Harry felt green and nudged his plate further from him, abandoning even the appearance of eating. He reached up to absently rub at his scar and caught Hermione’s frown across the table. He immediately dropped his hand.

“You should talk to him, Harry,” she said, repeating the same thing she’d been saying for the past week.

Ron looked up from destroying the platter of eggs in front of him, his expression aghast. “Why would he want to do _that_? He’s finally free of the slimy—”

“Because it’s _important_ , Ron,” Hermione interrupted, making a face at the bits of egg that clung to Ron’s cheeks. She held out a napkin to the redhead. “Harry has to keep…up his grades in potions. It’s our OWL year and these tests are vital for our future classes _and_ they help determine our future careers!”

“I want to play quidditch,” Ron complained, deliberately ignoring the napkin and used his sleeve instead. “I don’t need OWLs to do that!”

“You can’t play quidditch forever, Ron!” Hermione exclaimed, dropping the napkin on top of his plate in order to force him to take it and thumping a heavy _History of Magic_ book onto the table. “You need to have a secondary plan.”

He shrugged, looking supremely unconcerned, and nodded toward Harry. “I’ll just do what Harry’s doing.”

Her lips pressed together — Harry wondered if she was channeling McGonagall — and she demanded, “And what’s that?”

They turned to Harry as one and he snapped upright, holding up his hands. “Don't look at me. I think an Auror might be cool—”

“Auror!” Hermione cut him off loudly. “You need NEWT potions for that and Professor Snape is very exacting with his standards,” she informed them. Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully at him and she asked shrewdly, “And how are your potions grades?”

Harry shrugged. Ron’s ears reddened and he snatched up the napkin and tossed it onto the table, grumbling, “Shut up.”

Hermione sniffed, looking mildly offended. “I’ve got a study group in the library tonight—”

“It’s _Friday_ ,” Ron said, sounding appalled.

“—you two are welcome to join us if you want,” she finished, ignoring the interruption. “We’re revising herbology and potions.”

Ron’s expression showed exactly what he thought about that and he opened his mouth to give a scorching opinion about studying for _anything_ on Friday…let alone _potions_. A great rustle of feathers and beating of wings interrupted what would no doubt have been words that led to a heated lecture on the importance of good study habits, time management, and responsibility. One that both boys sat through several times every term since first year. Harry would bet his Firebolt that he could probably recite it word-for-word, but no one wanted to hear it _again._

“Mail’s here,” Ginny said, surprising Harry (he’d not been aware that she was seated next to him). “Finally. Mum promised to send me some shortbread.”

Ron’s attention snapped to his sister. “Mum sends you biscuits? She doesn’t send _me_ biscuits!”

Ginny smirked at him, raising her eyebrows smugly when a heavily ladened Pig landed on her plate and nearly overturned her goblet. Relieving the tiny owl of his burden, she gave a toss of her hair and proclaimed, “I only told Mum how much I miss her homemade biscuits and the ones the house elves make just aren’t the same.”

“I’m writing Mum today,” Ron declared, eyeing the package in his sister’s hands. Ginny pulled it closer to her, tucking it protectively away from her brother’s reach.

Hermione rolled her eyes as she unrolled her copy of the _Daily Prophet_ that one of the many postal owls had dropped on her plate, eyes already scanning the headlines. “You don’t need any more sweets, Ron. I’m surprised your teeth haven’t — holy cricket!”

Harry was leaning closer to Ginny as she unwrapped the box, curious to see what else Mrs. Weasley had sent, when Hermione’s exclamation nearly made him topple into the red-haired girl. Ron almost upset his eggs and pumpkin juice. Harry righted himself quickly, anxiously demanding, “What? Is it Voldemort?”

“No,” she assured, still absorbed in the article, “listen to this.”

 

 

>  
> 
>  
> 
> Sirius Black: Wrongfully Imprisoned 12 Years, Declared Innocent
> 
>   
> In a sudden turn of events, evidence has emerged that brings to light many unanswered questions from that October night in 1981 when You-Know-Who was defeated by young Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived. Sirius Orion Black, the oldest son of Orion and Walburga Black (for Black Family Biography see page 13), was believed to have been You-Know-Who’s greatest supporter after the deaths of James and Lily Potter on 31 October 1981 and the presumed death of Peter Pettigrew and 12 muggles on 1 November. Black was arrested at the scene and sentenced to life in Azkaban where he remained until the summer of 1993 (see page 8, Sirius Escape).
> 
> In a strange series of events that are still unclear at the time of this printing, Peter Pettigrew was discovered in the atrium of the Ministry of Magic, alive. Veritaserum was administered, under which Pettigrew confessed to being a Death Eater (his left arm sported the Dark Mark), being the Potter’s Secret Keeper, and betraying them to You-Know-Who. Further questioning revealed that Black has never been a Death Eater and that the curse that killed 12 muggles was cast by Pettigrew himself.
> 
> A special assembly of the Wizengamot gathered to discuss these new findings and quickly pardoned Sirius Black. We at the Daily Prophet would like to congratulate Mr. Black on his well-deserved freedom and wish him the best of luck in the years to come.
> 
> Pettigrew’s sentence has been deferred until more evidence is gathered.
> 
> Remuneration for Mr. Black’s unjust and unlawful imprisonment is not known at this time.

Whispers and exclamations of surprise echoed through the Great Hall. Several students stood from their seats to peer at the Gryffindor table to see if they could see Harry’s reaction to the news, but Harry was just as surprised as everyone else. He snatched up his copy of the newspaper and looked at it in disbelief. The print swam before his eyes as he stared at the small photo of Pettigrew that was embedded in the text. Hermione smoothed out her own copy of the newspaper, beaming across the table at him. “Isn’t that wonderful, Harry?”

Harry nodded mutely, distantly surprised he didn’t feel more excitement. His stomach still felt like lead from his last Occlumency lesson with Snape and his feelings were conflicted when he thought about his father and Sirius. Harry glanced toward the Head Table, scanning the professors. Each of them had a newspaper in front of them and were engrossed in the pages. Umbridge was looking even more sour than usual. At the far end, Snape tossed his paper to the side with a snarl and picked up his teacup, lifting it to his lips. He must’ve had a sixth sense because no sooner had Harry looked at him, than those piercing dark eyes snapped to him and narrowed in a murderous glare. Harry swallowed thickly, quickly dropping his eyes back to his newspaper. The heat of shame crawled up the back of his neck.

“Do you think you’ll be able to live with him now?” Ron wondered aloud, reaching for Harry’s paper to look at the article. “I mean, now that the Ministry knows he wasn’t a Death Eater and all, you should be able to live with him.”

“I don’t know,” Harry muttered uncomfortably.

Hermione shook out her newspaper. “I’m sure Harry’s situation is more complicated than most people’s.” At Ron’s blank stare, she sighed and lowered her voice. “The _blood wards_ , Ron.”

“Oh.”

Ginny looked between them, her brow furrowed in thought. “Are they really that strong?”

“Dumbledore seems to think so,” Harry said, slouching in his seat.

“Well,” Hermione said, “I think you’d be safer and better cared for with Sirius inside a Fidelius Charm than at your relatives’ with the blood wards.”

“The Dursleys aren’t that bad,” Harry felt compelled to say. It always felt awkward defending his relatives.

Hermione’s expression tightened, but she returned her attention to the newspaper and said nothing. Ron snorted, flipping through the newspaper to the Quidditch pages. “Mate, they _starve you_ all summer.”

“They starve you?” Ginny asked with disbelief.

“I don’t _starve_!” he protested. His ears burned.

“Only because Mum sends you food,” Ron argued, finally looking up at his friend. “A whole basket. Every summer.”

Harry folded his arms across his chest and ground out, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Glad to hear it, Mr. Potter,” a voice drawled behind him and Harry cringed, turning to look up at the scowling Potions Master. “Professor McGonagall would like to see you in her office after your last class today.”

“Why?” Harry blurted apprehensively.

“I wasn’t informed,” Snape sneered at him and then swept away, black cloak billowing behind him.

“Git,” Ron and Ginny said together.

Hermione harrumphed her disapproval and primly turned. Her reprimands for respecting the professors went largely ignored so she decided not to press the point this time. Nudging Harry’s plate back towards him, she said, “You need to eat, Harry. Don’t think I haven’t noticed your skipping meals.”

Harry pulled a face. An open box appeared under his nose and rattled enticingly. He followed the arm holding the box to meet Ginny’s brown eyes. She grinned a little. “Have a biscuit, Harry.”

“You can’t have biscuits for breakfast,” Hermione protested.

“Of course you can!” the Weasley siblings chorused.

Ginny jiggled the box again. “What do you say, Harry? Have some shortbread.”

Harry took one with a smile of thanks. Ron’s arm reached across Harry to snag a biscuit from the box, but Ginny yanked it away and quickly sealed it again. “Not for you, Ron!”

“You gave Harry one,” Ron complained.

Ginny sniffed, stowing the box in her bag and rising from the bench. “I can share my biscuits with whomever I please.”

“Why does Harry get one and not me?”

She pulled the strap of her bag over her shoulder, saying loftily, “Because Harry’s my favorite.”

Ron gaped at his sister and Hermione looked up from the paper, her eyebrows rising. Color rose in Ginny’s cheeks and she turned away. “Anyway,” she said with forced lightness, “it’s about time for class. Bye.”

She left quickly and Ron rolled his eyes, shifting to scan the table, but the elves had already cleared most of the food from the surface. He wilted a little when he didn’t see anything else to eat within reach and muttered, “Of course you’re her favorite.”

“You’ve had more than enough to eat,” Hermione said. “Besides, Ginny’s right. It’s almost time for class to start so we’d best be off.”

While she gathered up her history book and folded the newspaper, Ron leaned close to Harry and whispered, “Do you think we can convince her to skive off classes today?”

Harry stifled a laugh. “I don’t think Hermione’s ever willingly skipped class.”

They met Hermione at the doors to the Great Hall and Ron opined, “Shame. She could use a break.”

 

 

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Potions class was nearly as miserable as the last one. Since the abrupt ending of his occlumency lessons, potions class had deteriorated further. Somehow, Malfoy and the rest of his cronies discovered Harry’s lessons (not the nature of them, of course) and the cessation of them. Malfoy’s superior smugness and biting mockery increased after the break-up of the DA.  
  
Harry had expected much the same treatment from Snape, but instead of Snape’s biting criticisms and deriding of Harry’s assignments, the professor ignored everything about him. The dark professor hadn’t even commented on Harry’s near perfect potion. He was bottling a sample to turn in when Malfoy finally spoke, pitching his voice to be heard by the rest of the class, “I see not even private lessons did you any good, Potter. Did Granger do your potion for you?”

The class turned to look and Harry felt Snape’s piercing gaze. Harry clutched the potion vial tightly, ear burning. Ron twisted in his seat to glare at Malfoy, snapping, “Harry doesn’t have to take remedial potions anymore.”

“Oh?” Malfoy scoffed, glee shinning on his face. “So it’s true, then? You really were taking remedial potions? Still can’t tell the difference between _daucus carota_ and _conium maculatum_? Maybe it’s a good thing.”

Ron’s face flushed red and he surged to his feet, the bench scrapping loudly across the flagstone floor. “That’s because Snape—”

“— refuses to continue to spoon-feed a deplorable student,” the potions master drawled, coming to stand in front of their table. “Particularly a student who has no desire to put any effort into his studies and shows nothing but belligerent disrespect.” Snape sneered down at them, dark eyes narrowing on the vial in Harry’s hand. “Five points from Gryffindor for disrupting my class and a zero, Potter, for cheating.”

Ron sputtered with indignation, but Hermione clamped a hand on his arm and hissed quietly to hold his tongue. The professor held out his hand and Harry reluctantly surrendered his potion. Snape glanced at the vial and Harry held his breath. He wouldn’t be surprised if Snape drops the potion or vanished it completely. He’d already given Harry a zero so it wasn’t like the potion sample was necessary for his grade now. Instead, the potions master tucked it into his robes and leveled a dark look on him. “I’m sure the Headmistress will be interested in learning of your deplorable behavior. Get out of my class, Potter.”

Harry stared. There was still another twenty minutes of class left. “Professor—”

“Get. Out,” Snape hissed.

Harry swallowed back his words of protest, rising stiffly to his feet and gathering his books to shove into his bag. Ron nodded that he’d pack up Harry’s potions supplies when he glanced at the redhead. A quick look at Snape revealed the potions master’s imperious expression shifting toward impatient. Harry quickly averted his eyes, snatched up his book bag, and hurried from the classroom, ignoring Malfoy’s snickers.

The door slammed on his heels and Harry cringed. A few of the seventh year Slytherins turned at the sound and then turned away again with a roll of their eyes. Harry lingered uncertainly outside the potions classroom with the feeling of mortification warring with anger and frustration before he decided he didn’t want to listen to Malfoy’s gloating when the class finally emerged. Turning sharply on his heel, he stalked toward the stairs out of the dungeon. Halfway up the dungeon stairs, the anger faded back into the familiar feeling of guilt. He really did want to say something to Snape, if only to ease the guilt for invading the man’s memories. It really had been an impulse decision and Hermione was always telling him he needed to look before he leapt.

The corridors were mostly empty, and the students he did pass cast him curious looks, but nobody said anything. With his temper over the last few years and the very obvious disdain from both the Ministry and Umbridge, most of the school felt avoidance was the better part of valor. Besides, with the libel printed in the newspapers, most thought he was insane or a desperate attention-seeker anyway.

His steps carried him up the main staircase and through the corridors with no particular destination in mind. Just as he was passing the DADA classroom, someone cleared their throat and he froze in his steps.

“Hem, hem.”

Harry turned slowly. Dolores Umbridge stood in the door of her classroom, her fuzzy, pink cardigan just as sickeningly pink as always, a wide smile stretching her lips. Harry straightened, meeting her narrowed eyes with a flat stare. “Professor.”

If possible, her smile grew wider. “Mr. Potter. Aren’t you supposed to be in class right now?” Harry said nothing so Umbridge continued in a syrupy tone, “Potions; right?”

“I — Professor McGonagall asked me to come to her office,” he grudgingly admitted.

“In the middle of class?” she asked sweetly. “What reason could Professor McGonagall possibly have to interrupt your lessons?”

Harry shrugged, gaining some satisfaction in the annoyance that crossed her toad-like face. Sharp steps turned the corner at the far end of the corridor and McGonagall’s stern expression chilled when she saw them. She came to an abrupt halt next to them, her lips pressed thinly as she looked between Harry and Umbridge. Her chin lifted the she caught Umbridge’s eyes and she turned pointedly away from the shorter woman, addressing Harry, “There you are, Mr. Potter. Professor Snape informed me you were on your way to my office. Come along.”

With that, the transfiguration professor moved to lead the way, but Umbridge shifted, simpering “Hem, hem.”

They paused. Umbridge’s smile was all teeth. “Why is Mr. Potter meeting with you, Professor McGonagall? I believe he’s supposed to be in Professor Snape’s class right now.”

McGonagall’s lips thinned further and she deliberately clasped her hands together. Harry wondered if she did that to prevent herself from drawing her wand on the other woman.

“It is time for Mr. Potter to discuss his plans for the rest of his school and his future career options. Professor Snape was kind enough to release Mr. Potter when he finished his classwork.”

It was clear Umbridge didn’t totally believe McGonagall and her smile slipped from her face. Her bulging eyes narrowed skeptically at Harry. A forced smile returned to her wide lips and she simpered, “Well, Mr. Potter’s future career choice is very important. We’re all very interested in his future achievements.”

“Quite,” McGonagall said tersely. “Come along, Potter.” She turned and took a few steps before she paused to level the toad-like woman a look. “Professor.”

Harry moved to McGonagall’s side, a little surprised when she reached for his arm and guided him briskly down the corridor and into her office. McGonagall closed her office door with a snap and marched across the room to her desk, muttering, “That _woman_!”

She settled into her desk chair, grumbling for a moment longer while she shifted parchments and books before she subsided with a sigh. Harry stood uncomfortably before the desk and watched McGonagall take a deep breath and finally look up. Her stern features relaxed and she allowed a small smile. “Now, in light of the recent news, Sirius has asked if you would be able to celebrate his pardon this weekend. I am prepared to allow you to spend tonight to Sunday afternoon with Sirius; if you wish.”

Harry felt a rush of excitement even as his stomach swooped with dread. “Really? What about Umbridge?”

Her brows lowered sharply and her lips pursed. “I’m sure you and your friends can come up with some explanation for your absence.”

Harry laughed. “I can see Sirius? When?”

“We should be able to arrange for you to visit Sirius’ home after supper so Professor Umbridge will be less likely to notice your absence.”

The flush of excitement was fading now and his anxiety was growing. Harry shifted nervously, rubbing his palms against his robes. He’d spent the last weeks thinking about what he was going to do with the new information he had about his dad and godfather. It’d only been the previous night that he’d decided to ask for an explanation. After all, the memories were from Snape’s perspective. Maybe he forgot something? Maybe it was altered in someway and only seemed as bad as it did? For some reason, Harry felt that was a futile hope. The potions master never forgot the smallest detail on anything.

McGonagall looked over her glasses at him, asking, “Is there something troubling you, Mr. Potter?”

Harry quickly shook his head. “No, ma’am.”

She studied him curiously, allowing, “If you’re sure.” She waited until he nodded before dismissing him. “Make sure you pack a bag for the weekend and then meet me by the front doors after your astronomy class. Ensure that you are not seen. By anybody.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

 

 

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

The remaining classes for the day seemed to drag by. Harry was only able to mention that McGonagall had found him when Umbridge cornered him, but he didn’t get a chance to tell them of his weekend plans. Ron had scowled when he told him to wait until they returned to the common room, but Hermione had taken on a thoughtful expression and nodded.

Finally, charms ended and Flitwick dismissed them. They hurried to the common room, and then up to the fifth year boys’ dormitory when they discovered just how crowded the common room was, before Harry finally told his friends his news. Hermione nodded knowingly, as if she’d guessed as much earlier.

“McGonagall is letting you leave the school?” Ron asked, flabbergasted. “For the _whole weekend_?”

“Yeah,” Harry said with a small shrug. “Sirius asked to see me.”

“Of course he did,” Hermione agreed, settling on the edge of Harry’s bed while he dug through his trunk and pulled out shirts and trousers. “He’s a free man now and wants to celebrate.”

Ron flopped onto his own bed with a gusty sigh. “I wish I could leave school for a weekend.”

Hermione gave him an arch look. “You would want to spend the weekend with your parents?”

“Merlin, _no,_ ” Ron groaned. “That’d be a bloody nightmare. Mum would probably have me de-gnoming the garden or something equally boring.”

“De-gnoming isn’t that bad,” Harry said, stuffing his clothing into a rather ratty looking bag and then searching under his bed for socks.

Ron scoffed. “Says _you_.”

“Chores build character and teach you life skills; like time management,” Hermione said, ignoring Ron’s grunt of disagreement and reaching to pick up one of Harry’s discarded books. “Are you going to talk to Sirius about…you know?”

Harry sat back on his heels, cautiously sniffing the pair of socks he’d found under the bed before he tossed them towards his bag. “I think so.”

Ron propped himself up on his elbows, frowning. “I don’t know why you’re so upset about it, mate. Snape’s a right git and he probably deserved it.”

Harry returned the frown. “It’s not right,” he said. “It’d be like — like attacking Malfoy for no reason.”

Ron snorted. “ _I’ve_ got _plenty_ of reasons to —”

“No,” Harry interrupted, mussing his hair. “I can’t explain it.”

Hermione stacked several school books next to Harry’s bag. “Bullying is never something you want to imagine your parents doing.”

“Bullying?” Ron scoffed. “Snape probably gave as good as he got. Probably started it too.”

Harry ferreted out another pair of socks and stuffed them into his bag and tied it closed, ignoring the books. “I’m not saying Snape was completely innocent—” Ron snorted and Harry ignored him, “—but — I don’t know. I don’t want to think of my dad and Sirius acting like that.”

Hermione nodded. “We understand, Harry.”

By the expression on Ron’s face, Harry could tell that the redhead certainly _didn’t_ understand, but he nodded anyway. Harry forced his nervous tension down and smiled. “Thanks, guys.”

Hermione beamed, rising to her feet and smoothing down her robes. “Now, how about we get a head start on our homework before dinner?”

She started down the stairs to the common room, blissfully ignorant of Ron’s mumbled swearing. “Do you think she thinks of anything else except school work?”

“Come on, Ron,” Hermione called back up the stairs, “the OWLs are only weeks away!”

Ron dragged himself to his feet, rolling his eyes and demanding, “Why does she never tell you to do your homework?”

“She does,” Harry told him. “Maybe she’s giving me a pass this weekend.”

“Harry,” Hermione called again, “make sure you bring your potions and herbology books.”

Ron snorted. “Maybe not.”

 

 

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Hermione did manage to get them to do at least some of their homework before dinner, though she expressed disappointment that neither of the boys finished. The dinner hour arrived and they grabbed their astronomy textbooks before heading down to the Great Hall. Dinner passed with inconsequential talk. Ron bemoaned the Inquisitional Squad and Malfoy’s smug face and Hermione again invited them to join her study group in the library.  
  
Astronomy that night was going to be a short class, which was a relief to Harry since he doubted he would be able to stand the tedium of charting stars. Finally, Professor Sinastra dismissed them for the night. Harry nearly leapt down the tower stairs and Hermione and Ron were quick to follow. It wasn’t too late in the evening, just after nine, but Harry didn’t want to keep McGonagall waiting.

Once in the Gryffindor Tower, they hurried up the dormitory stairs and Harry grabbed his weekend bag and invisibility cloak. He ignored the stack of books Hermione had placed by his bag and swung the cloak over his shoulders. “You’ll let me out the portrait door, right?”

Ron nodded. “Of course, mate. I’ll even keep an eye on Dean and Seamus so they don’t go ratting you out to Umbridge.”

“Really, Ron,” Hermione complained, “I don’t think either of them would tell on Harry.”

Ron rolled his eyes, but decided against arguing. Neither Dean or Seamus had been on good terms with Harry this year and didn’t hesitate to let him know, but Harry doubted they’d go so far as to report him to Umbridge.

Now hidden beneath the invisibility cloak, Ron and Harry started back down the stairs to the common room to wait for the perfect moment to sneak out the portrait. Hermione, however, pause long enough to scoop up the books Harry had left before she hurried after them, exclaiming, “Harry, your books! How are you going to do your homework if you don’t take them?”

“Lay off,” Ron groused. “Harry’s not going to to be doing _homework_ while hanging out with Sirius.”

The girl looked momentarily offended before a fierce scowl crossed her face and she huffed, “He’s got to keep up with his studies, _Ronald_. Exams are only two months away.”

“That’s plenty of time,” Ron argued.

“We still have homework,” she shot back. “And waiting until the last minute to revise doesn’t help you actually _learn_ anything.”

In an attempt to divert the escalating argument, Harry plucked his books form her arms and stuffed them into his bag. “Thanks, Hermione. I’m sure I’ll have plenty of time to finish my homework before I get back. You’ll check my work, yeah?”

“Of course,” she readily agreed. “You’ll write if you have any questions; right?”

“Sirius is there,” Ron grumbled. “He can just ask _him_. He’s a fully qualified wizard, after all.”

Hermione looked doubtful, but she smiled and leaned forward to give Harry another hug. “Good luck. Take care.”

Ron thumped him on the shoulder when Hermione pulled away. “Yeah. Tell Sirius we said ‘hi.’”

They were fortunate the common room was currently empty, otherwise they would’ve drawn far too much attention. Harry agreed to pass along their greetings and then they pushed the portrait door open and Harry slipped out with a last whispered goodbye. The portrait swung closed behind him and Harry quietly made his way through the nearly deserted corridors to the entrance hall. Professor McGonagall was standing before the house hourglasses, frowning darkly at the shining gems. Gryffindor was far behind the rest of the houses and it was unlikely they would catch up. In fact, Harry thought the House of Gryffindor was simply ignoring the point system for the rest of the year. He’d also overheard Fred and George wondering if they could make the record for the least house points in school history.

Keeping a wary eye out for the Inquisitional Squad, Umbridge, or even Snape, Harry cautiously approached his head of house and whispered, “I’m here, Professor.”

McGonagall didn’t even flinch with surprise at his sudden words. She nodded and turned to the doors, saying softly, “Follow me and keep close, Potter.”

She’d only taken one step when a throat cleared delicately. “Where are you going, Minerva?”

Umbridge stepped out of the shadows, her bulging eyes squinting suspiciously at the professor. McGonagall bristled, twitching her robes with annoyance. “I don’t believe I am required to divulge what I choose to do during my free time, Dolores.”

“Of course,” Umbridge demurred, “but I would like to know when my professors are no longer on school grounds. Just a precaution, my dear.”

McGonagall’s lips thinned at the endearment. “There are a few things I require in Hogsmeade and then I was going to stop at the Three Broomsticks for a pint.”

“By yourself?” Umbridge asked, her tone sickly sweet.

Quick steps down the marble stairs interrupted them and Madam Pomfrey rapidly approached, smoothing down pale blue robes and hardly sparing Umbridge a glance as she spoke to McGonagall, “I’m sorry to keep you waiting, Minnie. Oh, hello, Dolores, are you joining us for a pint?”

Madam Pomfrey expression was politely inquisitive when she addressed the woman. Umbridge looked between them before smiling insincerely. “I’m afraid I cannot be spared from my duties here. Have a good time, dears.”

McGonagall nodded sharply, glancing at Madam Pomfrey, and then swept out the castle doors. Madam Pomfrey followed quickly and Harry hurried after them, making sure to keep his cloak wrapped tightly around him so Umbridge wouldn’t see his shoes.

McGonagall’s stride was brisk and they were almost to the gates of the grounds before she slowed and released a gusty sigh. Madam Pomfrey checked over her shoulder, moving up next to McGonagall and asking softly, “Minnie?”

“The words I wish I could say to that woman!” McGonagall exclaimed emphatically. “Surely the Headmaster could’ve found _someone_. Another incompetent fool like Gilderoy Lockhart would’ve been better.”

Madam Pomfrey huffed a quiet laugh. “I think even Severus would agree with you.”

They exited the gates, starting down the path to Hogsmeade, and McGonagall stretched out a hand, saying, “Mr. Potter, take my arm. We’re going to Apparate. Do you remember where headquarters is?”

Harry’s hand appeared from beneath his invisibility cloak to take the transfiguration professor’s arm. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Good. Normally we would floo, but Professor Umbridge is monitoring the castle’s network,” she told him with a disapproving sniff. “She believes someone is in communication with the Headmaster and is determined to catch them out.”

“Have you heard from Professor Dumbledore?” Harry asked anxiously.

McGonagall ignored the question, addressing Madam Pomfrey, “I’ll see you at the Three Broomsticks shortly, Poppy. Ready, Potter?”

McGonagall Apparated before Harry could agree. The sudden squeezing, twisting sensation stole his breath and his feet hit the road in front of Grimmauld Place with a jarring thump. Harry could’ve sworn his stomach had been left behind on the road to Hogsmeade. The invisibility cloak rippled around him and he swayed. Only McGonagall’s arm kept him from landing on his face and Harry swallowed back the surging nausea.

Harry recognized the street and the homes in front of them. An old sedan rattled past them without slowing and Harry thought it probably needed to be seen by a mechanic. There was no one else on the street, though McGonagall glanced warily up and down the sidewalks before striding across the street to the house that seemed to pop up out of nowhere between 11 and 13 Grimmauld Place. Harry was hustled inside and the door was firmly closed behind them before McGonagall nodded and he was allowed to remove the cloak.

The entryway was as dark and dreary as Harry remembered it. The heavy draperies that hid Walburga Black were gathering dust again, but thankfully the portrait was silent. It was clear that Kreacher was still neglecting the house and Mrs. Weasley still hadn’t defeated the doxies and dust bunnies that sought refuge in the dim corners and moldering curtains. McGonagall lead the way down to the kitchen of the house and Harry followed, stuffing his cloak into his bag and taking care not to disturb Mrs. Black.

There was a marked difference in the atmosphere between the entry and the kitchen and Harry felt himself marginally relax. Mrs. Weasley was at the stove, grumbling over some offense (Harry thought he heard Sirius and Kreacher mentioned several times) while she fussed with the tea kettle and peered into a bubbling pot. When they entered, Mrs. Weasley was just turning to reach for her wand and she caught sight of them. She immediately released the wooden spoon she was holding and greeted them with a bright smile, crossing the kitchen to envelop Harry in a tight hug. “Hello, Harry. Let me look at you.”

He allowed himself to lean into the hug, letting the warm feeling that blossomed in him from the hug push aside the apprehension he felt over Snape’s pensieve memories. She held him out at arms’ length and Harry felt like she was cataloging every blemish he had — real or imagined. With a click of her tongue, she shook her head and lovingly patted his cheek. “You’re too thin, dear. Are you eating? Ginny mentioned that you seemed to lack an appetite recently. Have you been sick?”

“Lay off, Molly,” Sirius suddenly spoke up from the door. “There’s no way to starve at Hogwarts, as you know.”

Mrs. Weasley let Harry go when he turned and so he didn’t notice her lips pursing with her disapproval. Harry felt several emotions at the same time; a curious combination of dread and anticipation and relief.

“Hey, kiddo,” Sirius said with a grin, “did you hear the good news?”

“Your pardon?” Harry asked, feeling stupid a second later for asking such a ridiculous question.

Sirius threw his head back and laughed, leaping from his seat and seizing him a bear hug. “Of course! This is the best week I’ve had in _years_!” Sirius released him suddenly and Harry stumbled on shaking legs. The pardoned man dropped into a chair at the table, the grin still brightening his worn features and his eyes fever bright. “I still would’ve liked to get one good curse on the rat.”

As Harry steadied himself, he heard Mrs. Weasley say, “Thank you for bringing him, Minerva.”

He didn’t hear McGonagall’s response over Sirius’ sudden bark of laughter and then the stern transfiguration professor turned to Harry, saying crisply, “I’ve arranged it with Madam Rosemerta for you to floo to the Three Broomsticks Sunday afternoon no later than two. Either Madam Pomfrey or I will be there to collect you. Make sure you wear your cloak.” She glanced briefly at Sirius before finishing, “Behave yourself.”

“Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”

A small smile softened her features and she nodded then turned a stern look on Sirius. “That goes for you as well. No trouble. You’ve only just received your pardon.”

“Stop worrying, Minnie,” Sirius laughed with a dismissive wave. “Nothing’s going to happen.”

McGonagall’s face took on a pinched expression. “See that nothing _does_. It’s not safe for Mr. Potter right now. Don’t forget it, Sirius.”

Harry caught his godfather rolling his eyes and he bit his lip, looking quickly at his professor. McGonagall’s expression tightened, but she said nothing; instead, she nodded at them and bid her farewell to Mrs. Weasley before she disappeared through the floo to the Three Broomsticks. Sirius thumped the table. “So, there’s something you want to talk about? Your letters didn’t seem exactly happy, kiddo. Snivellus treating you all right?”

The cruel nickname made Harry bristle and he straightened, setting his jaw, as he recalled his earlier resolution to talk about his father and godfather’s bullying. Before he could speak, Mrs. Weasley shooed them out of the kitchen. “Go get Harry settled into his room, Sirius. I’ll have some tea sent up soon.”

Harry nodded mutely, his resolve withering. Sirius winked at his godson, shoving back from the table and rising to his feet. “Right. Let’s put your stuff down and we can talk privately.”

They kept quiet in the hall in order to not disturb Mrs. Black and creaked their way up the stairs. The room was just as he remembered it, though a little dustier since Mrs. Weasley didn’t have much help keeping the place clean. It appeared Kreacher was still as misanthropic as usual as Harry had yet to see the house-elf.

Sirius crossed the room and dropped onto the bed Ron had used over the summer, watching as Harry stopped by his own bed from the summer and let his bag drop to the quilted coverlet. When Harry didn’t venture to continue the conversation they’d started downstairs, Sirius raised an eyebrow. “You wanted to talk; right?”

“It was nothing,” Harry muttered, inwardly berating himself for being a coward.

Sirius didn’t look convinced, but shrugged anyway. “Okay. I was thinking, now that I’m free, we should go out and do something fun. Just the two of us. It’d almost be like Padfoot and Prongs, Part Two!”

“Really?” He felt the excitement bubble up. No one had ever wanted to do anything with him. Except for Ron and Hermione, he corrected himself. “Like what?”

The smile that crossed Sirius’ face could only be described as sly. “You’re fifteen now; right? James and I found this club nearby when we were about your age. The girls weren’t bad looking and some were extremely accommodating, if you know what I mean. I’ve been out of the action for way too long and I’m feeling the itch.”

Harry stared at his godfather in confusion. “A…club?”

“Sure! You know the type; right? It’s a great place to relax and meet some broads. They’re not as stuffy as some of those girls at school,” Sirius said with a laugh. “Lily gave James quite the chase. Of course, she had Snivellus sniffing around her before she knew better.”

Harry’s mouth dropped open as the meaning beneath his godfather’s words registered. “ _Mum_?”

“Yeah, old greasy git Snivellus drooled over your mum for years. It was disgusting. James was worried she’d been plucked before he got his chance, but Lily knew better. Like a Gryffindor girl would let some slimy snake put his hands on her.”

Harry’s lips moved soundlessly until he choked out the first thing his whirling mind could latch onto. “A strip club?”

He must have sounded more horrified than intrigued because Sirius looked at him oddly. “It’s more than a _strip_ club. James and I always had a good time. Last time we were there was just before he died. _That_ was a wild night.”

Harry felt heat flood his cheeks. “I don’t — Dad — Professor Snape was friends with mum?”

“Friends,” Sirius spat, lip curling in disgust. “Lily learned better and James finally got her in the end. Not that the slimy snake was any competition. James was a real ladies’ man. The girls all loved him. He swore it was the hair. Natural bedroom hair, so he said. What do you think? I bet you’ve got your pick of girls. Fame and the Potter good looks; James would’ve killed to have both. I bet you’ve got some stories already. So, favorites?”

The wink Sirius gave him made his blush flare brighter and the sliver of anger he’d nearly forgotten surged forth and he demanded, “Is that the reason you picked on him? Because he was friends with mum?”

Sirius looked taken aback. “Who? Snivellus?”

“Don’t call him that!” Harry shouted, a part of him surprised at how upset he was. He didn’t even _like_ the potions master.

“Are you _defending_ him?” Sirius asked with flabbergasted disbelief. “He’s no saint, Harry. He’s a _Death Eater_. He was bad from the day we met him. He knew all kinds of dark magic even before he got to Hogwarts. It was only a matter of time.”

The dismissive words and feeble justification only served to heighten Harry’s emotions.

“You bullied him. You _and_ Dad! It was wrong.” Harry couldn’t believe the words that were pouring out of his mouth, but he couldn’t seem to stop them. “No wonder he hates me. It wasn’t fair. It was three against one! No one deserves—”

Sirius leapt to his feet and Harry flinched, words drying up. The glare Sirius leveled on him shot a spike of fear through his heart. Sirius had never before given him such a look of disgust and loathing.

“James was a great man,” Sirius shouted.

“He was a bully,” Harry’s voice cracked and he could feel his eyes burn, “and a cheat and for the first time since I learned I was a wizard, I’m ashamed he’s my father.”

Sirius’ face flushed with anger and his hand shot out, seizing Harry painfully around the arm. He shook him roughly, snarling, “Your father _died_ for you. You don’t mean that.”

Memories of his own time at school — before Hogwarts and before he learned he had magic — assaulted him. Times he was alone and cornered in the school yard or in the loo. Times his cousin and his gang would kick him around just because he was there and because he was different. Just because he existed.

“I do. What kind of person can be so cruel and show no remorse? I _saw_ him. He _enjoyed_ attacking Snape. He enjoyed hurting him,” Harry gasped, trying to pull free. “Let go! You’re hurting me!”

Fury flared brighter on Sirius’ face. “You’re not acting like a Potter!”

“I’m glad,” he screamed. “I don’t want to be like my father if my father was like that!”

Sirius’ expression turned ugly and his fist clenched tightly around Harry’s arm. “Then get out of my house. I told James that Lily was only worth a fuck or two. After all, she actually _liked_ Snivellus and I’m sure the greasy git would’ve taken James’ sloppy seconds. I knew she was a bitch and I told him she’d ruin him, but no. He married the chit when she told him she was pregnant. James claimed she hadn’t wanted to, but he said no bastard sprog of _his_ would be a leech on his family. A bastard could ruin the family reputation.”

Sirius bared his teeth in a vicious snarl, twisting Harry’s arm painfully. “I warned him. I know there are ways — muggle ways — of ending a pregnancy, but the bitch refused. And I was right. You — she — you _both_ were the death of him. You might as well have cast the spell yourself.”

Harry could only stare at his godfather, robbed of words. Each sentence, every syllable, was dripping with bitterness and loathing. Sirius dragged him from the room, jerking him down the stairs all the way to the kitchen, and tossed him through the door. Mr. Weasley had arrived at some point while they were upstairs and he turned in surprise when Harry, cheeks flushed and tearstained, stumbled in. Mrs. Weasley quickly stood. “Harry—”

“If you don’t want to be a Potter,” Sirius spoke over the Weasley matriarch, “then you no longer are.”

The Weasleys gasped and Mr. Weasley struggled to his feet with a grimace of pain. “Sirius—”

The floo flared and a dark figure stepped out onto the flagstone hearth. No one paid any attention, their wide eyes riveted on the furious man. Sirius straightened, glaring imperiously down at his godson. “I deny that you are the son of James Potter. You shall no longer be acknowledge as his son and heir. All assistance and privilege from the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black and the Noble House of Potter is revoked henceforth. You are no longer allowed to use the name Potter. So speaketh I, Sirius Orion Black. Get out of my sight.”

The words fell like blows on Harry and left him gasping and nerveless. He staggered into the kitchen table, his vision spinning and stomach heaving, hardly aware of the chaos that erupted around him. A teacup shattered on the flagstone floor and Mrs. Weasley’s shrill voice demanded, “What were you _thinking_ , Sirius! Harry’s your _godson_!”

“I have no godson,” Sirius said, turning from the kitchen without another glance towards the devastated teen. “I want him out of my house before the end of the hour.”

“I didn’t realize you had so little respect for Potter’s brat,” Snape drawled, his dark eyes flicking between his student and his childhood nemesis.

“James and his family are no longer responsible for Lily’s bastard child. You were always sniffing after the bitch, Snivellus, you take her cast-off. I no longer care.”

The kitchen door slammed shut in the stunned silence that followed that pronouncement. Harry groaned, clutching his suddenly throbbing head and curling into himself as he sank to the cold floor. The click of hard-heeled shoes moved across the stones and Harry felt someone kneel by his side. The scent of Dreamless Sleep potion reached him and he knew Snape was the one who placed a hand on his back. He made an odd, grunting noise and then cleared his throat, saying, “Harry.”

Harry looked up, tears blurring his vision even as it tunneled and the edges darkened. Dark eyes examined him closely and then Snape turned to Mrs. Weasley. “What happened?”

“Oh, Severus,” Mrs. Weasley fluttered worriedly, “Sirius has disowned Harry! You heard! What are we going to do?”

Snape scowled, those piercing eyes turning back to examine the teen. Harry felt light-headed and he closed his eyes, letting his head drop to his raised knees. Snape rose to his feet, shaking out his robes. “I will have to speak to the Headmaster, but it is clear he can no longer remain here.”

“Of course,” Mrs. Weasley fretted. “Of course he can’t. How long do you think…”

She trailed off as if uncertain and Harry heard her move around the table, her robes rustling loudly in his ears. His eyes were starting to ache and chills raced down his spine. It felt like he was going to be sick. Snape moved away, closer to the fireplace, saying, “We should have a few hours before the effects take hold—”

He was silenced by Mrs. Weasley’s gasp. She had placed a hand on the top of Harry’s head, only to snatch it back a moment later and kneel hurriedly next to him. “He’s got a fever, Severus.”

Mr. Weasley shuffled around the table, dropping heavily into a nearby chair. “Harry,” he said, “look at me, son.”

It took more strength than Harry realized to lift his head and meet Mr. Weasley’s eyes. Mrs. Weasley gasped, “Severus! He’s bleeding!”

“Calm down, Molly, it’s just a nose bleed,” Mr. Weasley soothed, though his expression was worried.

Harry raised trembling hands to his nose, flinching when Snape seemed to swoop in out of nowhere. Strong, thin fingers griped his jaw and tilted his face upward and piercing black eyes narrowed. If it’d been anyone else, any other professor at Hogwarts — well, except for Umbridge — Harry would have thought he looked concerned. With his other hand, Snape snatched Harry’s hand away from the flow of blood, leaning closer and scowling blackly. “Hold still, boy.”

The warmth of a spell passed through him, momentarily pushing aside the encroaching cold that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere. Harry’s head was spinning and he was having difficulty keeping up with the activity going on around him. The one thing he knew, without a doubt, was that Sirius didn’t want him and close on the heels of that knowledge was that even his own father hadn’t really wanted him either.

“It’s happening too fast,” Mrs. Weasley said, voice shrill. “It’s not supposed to happen this fast.”

“What’s happening?” Harry slurred, tongue feeling thick and unwieldy.

“That imbecile,” Snape snarled, his dark eyes flashing. “He should have stayed in that hellhole where he belongs. The world is already too full of idiots.”

A sharp crack startled them and Harry’s bag popped into existence, knocking the tea set off the table with a crash. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley jumped in surprise, but Snape merely snatched it off the table and reached for Harry’s arm, noting the boy’s violent flinch. Snape filed that piece of information away to look into later and hauled the teen to his feet. Harry’s knees felt as stable as jelly and he stumbled into the potions professor. It felt like the world was tipping on its axis.

Snape half carried, half dragged him to the fireplace where the professor threw down a fistful of floo powder, called out a destination Harry couldn’t understand, and they disappeared in a rush of green fire.

To be continued...

 


	2. Consequences

Severus stepped out of the fireplace and into a spacious living room that was furnished in a rather dated victorian style though, knowing Albus Dumbledore the way he did, Snape wasn’t in the least bit surprised that the fabric over the settee and armchairs was a deep blue-violet with starbursts embroidered in gold thread. The whole room was probably taken out of the imagination of a muggle child. And Dumbledore himself sometimes took it to the extreme to image himself after a cartoon wizard. Severus was still uncertain if that was a cunning tactic or Dumbledore just preferred a certain amount of flamboyance. Perhaps it was both.

Potter stumbled over the hearth and only Severus’ quick reflexes kept the boy from face-planting into Dumbledore’s rug. The boy looked a sickly shade of grey-green and Severus immediately conjured a bucket. Not a moment too soon, either. The bucket was barely in front of the boy before he was violently ill. Potter collapsed to his knees, gripping the sides of the bucket like a lifeline and retching into it.

“What,” Albus began, rising to his feet in alarm, before changing his words, “whatever is the matter with Mr. Potter, Severus?”

The Potions Master sneered, turning away from the trembling boy to meet the Headmaster’s blue eyes. “Potter is dead.”

The older wizard looked both confused and disconcerted. “Explain.”

The retching slowed to exhausted coughs and occasional dry heaving and Severus glanced down, vanishing the contents of the bucket. “It appears that that imbecile Black has disowned the boy.”

It was strange, and a little unnerving, to see the normally well-informed man looking so surprised. “Disowned?”

Severus nodded sharply. “Irrevocably.”

Albus swept past the younger man, quickly kneeling next to the boy. He smoothed a hand over the heaving back and it was then that Severus noticed the overly large, worn shirt and frayed jeans. He’d never seen he boy out of his school robes, which were always new and clean. They’d screamed the Potter wealth and had served to ignite his bitter anger many times. Now they sparked an unsettling suspicion. Suspicions that could prove he’d been wrong and Severus hated being wrong.

He was pulled from his thoughts when Albus drew his wand and flicked it toward the door. A silvery patronus materialized and vanished through the wall. Albus stowed his wand again, focusing intently on the boy. “This event just happened?”

“Yes,” Severus said, shifting guiltily. “Approximately five or ten minutes ago. I’ve attempted to slow the damage.”

Blue eyes sparked knowingly up at him. “I’m not blaming you, my boy. I’ve called for Poppy,” he explained, running a hand over the boy’s back in a futile effort to soothe him when the teen started retching again. “You’ve done what you could.”

They didn’t have to wait too many minutes more before the front door opened and brisk steps were heard on the worn floorboards before the medi-witch called out, “Albus?”

“In the living room, Poppy,” Albus called back. “I’m afraid the former Mr. Potter is your patient tonight.”

“ _Former_?” Poppy gasped, entering the living room with her wand already in hand.

“I fear it’s a bit of a story, but that can wait,” the Headmaster told her. “Harry is in need of immediate assistance.”

She hardly paid Severus any mind and the potions master stepped out of her way as she rapidly moved to the Headmaster’s side, muttering furiously under her breath as she waved her wand in complicated patterns. Whatever the spells were telling her made her features darken and her eyes snapped fire when she finally lowered her wand and turned to Albus, demanding, “What happened to the child? He was in near perfect health not two hours ago.”

Albus looked old and weary and Severus offered a hand to help him stand. The boy was resting his forehead against the lip of the bucket, no longer throwing up but shivers wracked his body and sweat beaded along his hairline. The Headmaster lowered himself heavily onto the settee nearby. “What is the diagnosis, my dear?”

The matron’s lips pursed in displeasure. “His magical core is crumbling and his body is rejecting him; if we don’t stop it soon, he will not survive. Nothing in the school should’ve had such a devastating effect on a person.”

Albus sighed, running a hand down his beard. “It’s as I feared, then. It appears Harry has been ejected from the Potter line.”

Poppy gasped, her hand flying to her chest and clutching at her heart. “ _Completely…_? But I thought only the head of the family could do such a thing.”

Even Severus, though he’d assumed such was the case, was taken aback by the news. Complete disownment almost never happened in a family nowadays and he’d never heard of such results. Albus tapped the arm of his chair, a sign of great disturbance of mind. “It is normally only able to be done by the head of the family, but since Harry is — was the last of the Potter line and he is underage, the head of the family reverts to the closest living male relative on his father’s side.”

“Black?” Severus asked, already knowing the answer.

Poppy looked at him in surprise. “ _Sirius_ Black?”

“The very same,” Albus said when Severus merely sneered. “Not much happens for an adult witch or wizard since their magic has stabilized and completely become their own. There is also some mutation of an individual’s body as they grow and mature. Children still rely heavily on the family magic to keep them balanced and the make up of their body hasn’t changed enough to withstand violent alteration. Usually there is a delay before the disowning side effects, if there are any, occur. That they’re happening so swiftly is curious. What happened?”

The last question was directed toward Severus, but they were surprised when Harry spoke up, his voice muffled since he didn’t lift his head from the bucket, “I’m not Potter enough. Mum didn’t want — didn’t want to marry Dad.” A sob interrupted the explanation. “He was a bully and — and he took advantage of Mum. D-dad didn’t — didn’t _want_ me. Sirius said it’s m-my fault he died. Mine and Mum’s. He said I’m no longer a Potter.”

Severus felt his heart seize and he staggered, grateful for the armchair that appeared behind him. He sank into it, covering his face with his hands. Sixteen years of regrets and pain rushed through him and suddenly he understood her last words to him. The words she’d shouted at him through a locked door just before he saw the wedding announcement in the papers. Words that had crushed him at the time, but now took on a whole new meaning.

_“It’s too late, Sev!”_

“Am I going to die?”

Neither Poppy or Albus answered immediately and Severus grit his teeth. He’d failed Lily twice already. He’d run when she rejected him, lashing out in anger. He’d been a coward, just as his father always said. Then he failed to save her when it counted. He swore he’d protect the boy. He vowed the boy would live even if it took his dying breath to make it so. His fists clenched. He rose to his feet, eyes narrowed on the boy. “No.”

Harry shook his head. “I feel it,” he whispered. “It’s getting hard to see, hard to hear, hard to breathe… Everything hurts.”

“What needs to be done?” he demanded of Albus.

The elderly wizard looked surprised. “Are you sure, Severus? It would be extremely difficult to hide this from Voldemort.”

Severus suppressed the cold shiver of terror that clawed down his spine, burying it deep below his occlumency shields. “But not impossible.”

Albus steepled his hands, looking at the younger man over the tips of his fingers. “Perhaps you should take a day or so to think it over—”

“He doesn’t have a day or two, Albus,” Poppy suddenly exclaimed, hovering over Harry. Harry was retching again, but this time it was blood. The fluid leaked from the boy’s nose and eyes and stained his mouth. “The decision has to be made _now_.”

Albus looked flustered, but Severus was already moving to Harry, kneeling next to the boy and supporting him as he heaved. “What needs to be done? This is magic I’m not familiar with, Albus. Tell me quickly!”

“Severus, the plans in motion,” Albus started weakly, but Poppy was having none of it.

“Oh, sod your bloody plans, Albus! There is no time,” she snapped at the Headmaster, her knuckles were white around her wand. She moved around to help support Harry. “You need to be Harry’s father, Severus. The Ancient Rites.”

The potions master nodded. Old Magic. Blood Magic. It was considered dark by Ministry standards, but without it the boy _would_ die. James Potter’s DNA contribution was being forcibly ripped from Harry’s body and the magic he’d received from the Potter side was already withdrawing. Harry couldn’t survive with the DNA from only one parent…and the violent loss of magic would kill him if he _did_ manage to survive the impossible.

Poppy explained what to do as quickly as possible. Severus knew he’d have questions for the medi-witch afterwards. This was not the sort of magic one learned in school or during a typical apprenticeship. The old magicks weren’t taught anymore.

It was fortunate that Blood Magic was simple. Well, simple in an obscure sense of the word. At least this particular ritual didn’t require the conscious consent of the other. Harry was convulsing, his eyes rolling back in his head and blood seeping from his mouth. Blood soaked the ratty clothes the boy wore and stained Severus’ hands. Consent would be impossible.

“He’s seizing,” Poppy said, her voice urgent. “Lay him down — on his side, Severus.”

Severus worked quickly, shoving a low coffee table further away as Poppy leaned down and snatched Harry’s glasses out of the way. Severus leaned over the boy while Poppy frantically waved her wand. The iconic scar on the boy’s forehead burst open and a sickly greenish-black wraith rose from the reopened wound. A faint scream of rage emitted from the wraith and Severus jerked instinctively away from it. Albus leapt to his feet, wand thrust out and twisting. Wordless magic erupted from the wand and surrounded the misty thing, trapping it. Once the wraith was encased within a bubble-like container and Albus directed it into an empty chest nearby and locked it within.

“What was that?” Severus demanded.

“Not now, Severus,” Poppy snapped. “He won’t last much longer before the damage becomes too great.”

Using his wand, Severus cut a deep slash across his left palm, reaching for Harry’s and doing the same. He laced their fingers, bleeding wounds pressed tightly together. Drawing Harry to his chest, he wrapped his arms around the boy, and muttered a long string of guttural Gaelic that Poppy had provided. He could feel the pull of magic from deep within him moving up from his core and down his arm and into the boy. Harry’s convulsions slowed and finally stopped when Severus fell silent.

Severus let his head drop to the top of Harry’s head, feeling drained. Druidic spells were coarser than the latin ones that most of Europe adopted after the advance of the Roman Empire and therefore were more draining since few modern wizards were as connected to nature as they once were. Though Severus was more of the opinion that much of the magic the Ministry labeled “dark,” was done so because of ethnic cleansing and in an effort to “civilize” the magical population. Utter hogwash.

Harry lay still in his arms, the only sign that he still lived was the barely perceptible rise and fall of his chest. Poppy moved forward, her wand at ready in case either Severus or Harry needed stabilizing spells. Albus remained silent. She checked them both and sighed quietly, sinking to the floor next to them and almost leaning against Severus.

“It worked,” she told Severus, relief shining brightly in her eyes. “It’ll take a few days for his core to stabilize and rebuild after the trauma of — well, the least said about that, the better. You’ll need to rest as well, Severus. You expended a lot of magic and a fair amount of blood. No magical travel for a day or so. I don’t think either of you would survive it just now. Albus?”

The Headmaster blinked, tearing his eyes from Severus to meet Poppy’s questioning look. He startled. “Oh, yes. Ribky!”

A house-elf popped up at the end of the settee, bulging blue eyes widening even further in surprise at the number of people in the living room and what, by all appearances, looked like a murder scene. With a squeak, the little elf bowed. “What can Ribky do for yous, Master Headmaster, sir?”

“Have two rooms prepared for Severus and Harry, Ribky,” Albus said.

“Right away, sir!” Ribky squeaked, hesitating before she popped away and glancing anxiously at Severus as she pulled on her ears. “Would Master Potions Master and Master Potions Master’s son like a tray, sirs?”

Albus lifted an eyebrow, turning to look inquiringly at his younger colleague. Severus stared at the expectant house-elf until Poppy lightly touched his shoulder. With a sharp nod, Severus managed to form a coherent sentence. “Yes. Just tea… Harry will need something to eat when he wakes.”

“Soup or something similar would be best,” Poppy suddenly spoke up. “Keep it light, please.”

“Yes, sirs, Mistress Matron, ma’am!” Ribky trilled and then left with a _crack!_

Albus finally stood, shaking out his robes and crossing the worn rug. “Well, let’s get you two into your beds. I’m sure Ribky will have the rest of the elves fussing over you shortly. Can you walk, my boy?”

Severus released Harry into Poppy’s care, brow furrowing as he took an internal assessment of his body. It grated to have to admit it, but he didn’t think he’d be able to rise on his own, let alone climb the steep stairs to the bedrooms on the upper level without landing on his face in a dead faint. “I…may need assistance.”

Poppy chuckled quietly, blissfully ignoring Severus’ furious glare. With a flick of her wand, she levitated Harry out of the living room and they could hear her creaking up the old staircase down the hall. Albus’ eyes sparked with amusement when Severus turned his glower on him. The Headmaster smiled easily, giving way with a genial, “Of course. It would be my pleasure to help you to your bed.”

“Don’t levitate me,” Severus said fiercely. He would not suffer that particular indignity while still conscious.

The Headmaster laughed, hooking surprisingly strong hands under Severus’ arms and helping him to his feet. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

He would’ve rolled his eyes if he didn’t think doing so would make the room spin more than he could handle. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten that wraith you captured, Albus. You will tell me what it is.”

The elderly wizard hummed a vague agreement. “We’d best you to your room for the night, my boy.”

He swayed when he finally gained his footing, grateful that Albus merely held his elbow and said nothing. The trek across the living room, down the hall to the stairs, and finally to the upstairs bedroom felt like he’d walked the length of England and Scotland and been subjected to the Cruciatus no fewer than a dozen times by an infuriated megalomaniac dark lord. It was a testament to how he was feeling that he allowed Albus to clean the blood from his teaching robes before transfiguring them into colorful pajamas and tucking him into the equally colorful bed in a sickeningly cheerful guest room.

Albus fussed with the coverlet and then summoned a comfortable armchair from the corner of the room, placed it next to the bed, took a seat, and made himself comfortable while completely ignoring Severus’ withering glare. A tea tray popped up on the bedside table a moment later and Albus prepared a cup, placing it within easy reach of Severus and then made his own, saying, “We must decide what you’re going to tell Voldemort.”

Severus let his head fall back against the headboard, releasing a slow breath of air. It was the closest he’d allow himself to actually groaning. “Must we talk about this _now_ , Albus?”

“No time like the present,” the old man chirped pleasantly. “If not now, when? He’s likely to call you any moment since he’s only getting more and more frustrated that the prophecy is out of his reach.”

Severus draped an arm over his eyes. A headache was forming and he knew any pain relievers would be absolutely useless. The only cure for magical exhaustion was time…and sleep. And the blessed absence of blindingly bright colors and an old man’s meddling. “He is unlikely to summon me until he has a better understanding of his enemies. Namely you and — and Harry. This conversation can wait until my head no longer feels like a thousand goblins are mining inside my skull.”

“Very well.” Albus sounded disappointed. “You’d best drink your tea and eat some of this toast before you sleep. I really do wish you’d allowed us more time to find a solution.”

The Headmaster almost sounded petulant. Severus pushed himself up a little more against the headboard and reached for the teacup, lifting it to his lips and spearing his employer with glittering black eyes. “The boy was dying, Albus. You know my vow.”

The Headmaster tapped his fingers restlessly against his teacup. “I did not believe your vow extended to this sort of situation.”

Severus lifted an eyebrow and set the drained teacup back on the tray with a muffled _chink_ , saying testily, “As it’s _my_ vow, it is up to me to interpret the limitations and requirements as I see fit.”

“But the risks! If news got out—”

“It’s done, Albus,” the potions master interrupted, his admittedly short temper fraying. “There is no use debating hypothetical what-ifs and should-haves. Little though I like it, the decision is made.”

Poppy bustled in, a tray laden with potion bottles floating behind her, and smiled brightly at Severus. “Harry is as healthy as he can be after such an ordeal,” she told him. “He’s already showing remarkable improvement and, with rest and proper nutrition and potions, he should be able to return to Hogwarts with almost no noticeable change. We’ll have to wait and see if a small glamour is necessary.”

Albus rose from his chair, moving to allow Poppy to stand unhindered at the side of the bed. “That’s excellent news; is it not, Severus?”

Severus’ eyes were already closing as he fought the losing battle with sleep. Poppy helped him lie flat, swishing her wand to bring the bedclothes up snuggly around him, and checking that there were no surprises from the ritual. “It’s the most satisfying end to this sort of thing,” she murmured, mindful of her patient.

Albus chuckled quietly, commenting, “Congratulations, my boy; you’re now the proud father of a healthy boy.”

The panic those words invoked didn’t even have enough time to rise before exhaustion pulled him under.

 

 

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

The smell of bacon and coffee roused him the next morning, though it wasn’t until he opened his eyes and was greeted by the riot of color in the bed curtains that he remembered what happened. With a groan, Severus rolled onto his back and shoved stringy black hair out of his eyes. What had he been thinking? _Had_ he been thinking? The two of them were already in a precarious situation and he went and made it worse. He thought he’d finally grown out of his impulsive stage. Of course he had to prove he was as much of a fool at thirty-six as he’d been at sixteen. He winced. And eighteen. He thought he’d learned his lesson by the time he was twenty-one. Apparently not. Severus tried to grasp the thoughts he’d had the night before, but they eluded him. Lifting his left hand, he gazed mutely at the pale pink scar that bisected his palm.

He was a father.

The idea was laughable. Who was he to be a father to anyone? He could hardly stand _himself_ , what human would wish to be in such close relation to him? The sleeve of his nightshirt fell back revealing the Dark Mark and his lip curled in a sneer. Why had he let himself be branded like cattle? He dropped his hand back to his chest, focusing on the steady thump of his heart instead of the unsettling pulse in the mark. He focused on the beat for several minutes before allowing his thoughts to drift. His own father had certainly wanted nothing to do with him apart from another thing to kick. This was everything horrible. His last spontaneous, reckless decision chained him to a half-mad dark lord and lost him his best friend and the only woman he’d ever loved. Surely he should’ve learned something after nearly sixteen years.

He hardly heard the pop of a house-elf’s arrival, but he definitely heard the creature announce, “Breakfast is ready, Master Potions Master, if you wants it.”

“What I _want_ ,” Severus grumbled cantankerously, “is to be guillotined.”

The little creature blinked bulbous eyes. “Sir?”

Severus waved a hand dismissively. “Coffee. That’s all.”

The house-elf popped away and he climbed out of bed, reaching for the dressing gown that was draped across the armchair. The thought of joining a cheerful Albus Dumbledore presiding over his own breakfast table was repulsive. At least in the Great Hall at Hogwarts he was separated from the Headmaster by Minerva. The woman had a healthy respect for peace and quiet in the mornings and she deflected most of Albus’ chipper chatter. Being the sole recipient of the man’s attention first thing made delaying the inevitable sounded like a reasonable course of action to Severus. It would give him enough time to iron out his arguments and perhaps even convince himself he hadn’t lost his mind and signed his own death warrant. Again. The Dark Lord was sure to learn the sudden change of parentage soon. Especially since the idiot boy completely failed to even learn the rudiments of occlumency. Yes. Death was past his doorstep and now sitting down for tea at his kitchen table.

Severus prepared his coffee from the tray that appeared on the bedside table, then took the mug and went to see if he could find the boy’s room. Last night Poppy said the boy was fine and on the mend, but Severus needed to be sure of it himself. It would also give him the chance to see if any remarkable changes had occurred as a result of the ritual. Maybe he could then clear his thoughts and form some kind of plan for survival.

 

 

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

He finished his coffee and found his wand on the nightstand and canceled the transfiguration on his teaching robes. He spelled them with a refreshing charm for good measure, but knew the first thing he was going to do when he returned to Hogwarts was shower and change into a clean set of robes. The students might question his hygiene, but he absolutely hated that tacky, stale feeling of not showering. A few more tugs to settle his robes more comfortably on his shoulders, he knew anything more would just be stalling, and he picked up his mug of coffee and strode confidently out the bedroom door.

It turned out that Severus didn’t have far to go in order to find the brat. The boy’s room was right across the hall from the room Severus had used for the night. The door was open and, from the potion bottles and the half-drunk cup of tea on the nightstand, it appeared that Poppy or Albus had spent the night by the bed. It was probably Albus, Severus reasoned, since Poppy’s absence would be noted by that toad-faced woman who called herself a witch.

He stopped in the door for a moment, staring at the boy that lay unmoving in the center of the bed. Unsurprisingly, the boy was still asleep. Or, more likely, unconscious. Severus crossed the room quietly, hesitating for a moment before easing into the armchair. He typically would’ve preferred to remain standing — after all, he was not one to sit vigil at anyone’s sickbed — but he was still feeling drained from the ritual. The windows faced east and the early morning sunlight was filtering through the partially parted drapes, spilling across the floor and stretching to the foot of the bed and providing enough natural light to study the boy.

Given the chance to examine the boy without others watching or the brat himself being aware of his scrutiny, Severus allowed himself the opportunity to truly look. The boy was smaller than he realized; thinner, too. Not only that gawky thinness of a growing teen, but also that undernourished, half-starved look he knew so well from his own miserable childhood. The boy’s left hand rested on his stomach, slathered in — Severus leaned closer, breathing in the subtle scents of potions — essence of dittany, murtlap, and aloe along with several other stronger healing salves. He frowned, setting his mug on the bedside table and reaching for the hand. The cut from the ritual shouldn’t require such extensive healing balms and potions, particularly on the back of the hand. Light struck the back of the boy’s hand when he lifted it and he felt himself go cold. It wasn’t a single gash like he’d assumed it was.

_I must not tell lies._

The raised letters looked angry and inflamed. He recognized the script as the boy’s handwriting. His mouth turned down in a frown and he ran a thumb over the scars. Dark magic seemed to radiate from the words and the only object that could cause such scarring would be a Black Quill. His frown darkened. And the only one who would have that would be Umbridge. How he hated that woman! If he could curse her, and get away with it, he would. It would almost be worth the consequences anyway. The woman had the gall to question his potions mastery and then twittered when she asked why he hadn’t received the Defense Against the Dark Arts post. As if _she_ were more qualified.

Harry stirred and Severus dropped his hand as if burned, watching intently as closed eyes slowly cracked open. The boy groaned, lifting a hand to shade his eyes against the morning light. Harry blinked, turning away from the window. He startled when he saw Severus at his bedside.

“Professor?”

The boy’s voice cracked and he grimaced, licking dry lips. Severus silently handed him the glass of water that was on the bedside table among the potion bottles. Harry struggled to a sitting position, slouching tiredly as he stared blearily around the bedroom. Now that the teen was awake, Severus was able to see the subtle changes in the boy’s face and frame. The eyes were still green, but the face had thinned and his cheekbones were more defined. Whether that was because of malnutrition or not remained to be seen. Severus was relieved that it appeared the boy had inherited Lily’s nose as well as her eyes since neither of those changed much. Harry’s hair had darkened to a true black and, though it still stuck up in all directions, Severus had dared a light touch while the boy slept and knew the strands were as fine as his own and would no doubt be more easily tamed after a good wash and the use of a comb.

Harry cradled the glass of water in his lap as he curiously studied the room around him, a familiar frown of concentration on his face. “What happened? Where am I? This isn’t the hospital wing.”

“Of course it isn’t,” Severus drawled. He did know how disconcerting it was to wake up and not have any idea where you were. “What do you remember?”

“Sirius — I was dying…” Harry trailed off and rubbed at his eyes, freezing in surprise. He pulled his hands away to stare at them as if he’d never seem them before. “Where are my glasses?”

“Do you need them?” Severus asked curiously.

Green eyes stared at him for the first time without hindrance of dark framed glasses. They really were his mother’s eyes. Sure, Severus had heard nearly every colleague say it, but he’d never really looked. Harry shook his head. “I can see,” he breathed with wonder. “I’ve never seen so well.”

“Of course,” Severus murmured, steepling his fingers and tapping them against his lips. “You must’ve gotten your previously horrendous eyesight from Potter’s side.”

That statement brought confusion to Harry’s face and he dropped his hands to his lap, quickly catching the glass of water before it could spill. “My eyes are different now?”

Severus summoned the hand mirror that was laying on the dresser nearby and held it out for the boy. Harry took it uncertainly, holding it up before his face. Severus would never admit to anyone that he felt any kind of anxiety while Harry examined his new appearance. All in all, it wasn’t that drastic of a change. He took after Lily far more than Severus had given him credit for and that, at least, was one less difficult thing to explain away. Maybe a pair of faux glasses would make the changes less noticeable?

“Why?” the boy finally asked. “I don’t understand.”

Severus plucked the precariously perched water glass from the bed, putting it back on the nightstand. “How much do you remember after leaving Grimmauld Place?”

Harry frowned, eyes never leaving the mirror. “Everything hurt. I — I was throwing up blood.” He finally tore his gaze from his reflection, brow pinching in thought. “You…did something.”

Severus nodded. “When Black disowned you, he did so completely. In essence, he declared that Potter never fathered you and you no longer had a right to the blood, magic, and privileges of that _esteemed_ family. As a result, Potter’s blood as being forcibly removed.”

The boy paled and Severus paused. He waited until Harry swallowed thickly and nodded for him to continue. The potions master cleared his throat, shifting his gaze from looking directly at the boy. Poppy, or even Albus, would’ve been better at explaining what happened and the ramifications of everything. Severus was expecting an explosive outburst and violent denials at any moment. “I took the place of your father in an ancient blood ritual.”

“What does that mean, exactly?” Harry’s question was cautious and perhaps a little fearful.

“I performed Blood Magic,” Severus said shortly. “You are now my son in every way, biologically and magically. It is as if Lily and I had—”

“I understand,” Harry interrupted quickly, cheeks flushing. “I meant, what does it mean for _me_?”

Severus considered the teen on the bed, noting the apprehension that tensed his frame and the way thin fingers clenched around the hand mirror. He wondered what it was the boy was trying to ask. “It means,” Severus said slowly, “that I am now obligated to…care for you.”

Harry looked away. “Obligated?”

“Yes.” Severus was deeply uncomfortable. “As all parents are obligated to care for their children. Of course, you may still stay at your aunt and uncle’s—”

“Do I have to?” Harry burst out, seemed surprised at his audacity, and rapidly backtracked, “I mean, I know about the wards and all and Dumbledore said it’s safer for me there…”

He trailed off with an uncomfortable shrug. Severus tapped the arm of his chair, a wealth of meaning in that jumble of words and unspoken twitches that he knew he’d spend the next several hours examining in close detail and reexamining all past interactions with the boys in light of the new information he’d just received.

“We’ll address your living situation at another time,” Severus told him, making a mental note to do some investigating into one home on Privet Drive. “In the meantime,” he reached across the bed, hesitating a moment before gingerly taking Harry’s left hand and turning it over, tracing the words on the back. Harry’s hand twitched and Severus tightened his hold to keep him from pulling away. “Where did you get this?” he asked darkly.

Harry twisted his hand, attempting to hide the scarring. “It’s nothing.”

Severus let him hide the hand, but he wasn’t about to let the boy brush off the scars. If what he thought was happening at the school, more than just Harry were being subjected to a dark artifact and, if that was the case, _why_ hadn’t he heard about it? “Is a Black Quill being used in detentions?”

The teen blanched. “Your detentions are bad enough!”

The potions master scowled. “I have no need of using dark magic in order to discipline my students. Besides, it is _illegal_ to use magic to discipline you miscreants. Surely Miss Granger has told you such.”

“She mentioned it,” he admitted.

“Indeed.” Severus had no doubts the girl subjected Harry and the Weasley boy to any number of lectures on rules, laws, and their class subjects. It was just a shame the boys’ friendship with her didn’t keep them out of trouble.

Harry tucked his chin, glancing up at his professor through his fringe. There was no point pretending he was unable to determine exactly who would break the school’s disciplinary guidelines. Severus lifted a brow, drawling, “There is only one professor at Hogwarts that would dare to use dark magic on a student; _particularly_ on _you_.” Harry said nothing. “Umbridge will get what’s coming to her. The Headmaster will not stand for harm to come to any of his students.”

Harry bit his lip. “But Professor Dumbledore isn’t at the school anymore.”

His lip curled and he said with a greater degree of satisfaction than he normally would exhibit, “The Headmaster has a greater degree of control over the workings of Hogwarts than some Ministry toad.”

The boy blinked in surprise, gaping unbecomingly.

“Thank you, Severus,” Albus said, entering the bedroom with two breakfast trays, handing one to Harry and conjuring a small table next to Severus and setting the second tray on top. “Now, what is it that requires my attention at Hogwarts?”

Severus looked pointedly at Harry, but the boy ducked his head and fidgeted with the toast on his tray. When is was clear he was attempting to avoid answering, the Headmaster gently prompted, “Harry?”

The teen hesitated, darting a quick look at Severus and cringing when the potions master leveled him with a narrow look. With a nervous swallow, Harry silently held out his left hand. In some bemusement, Albus took the boy’s hand in his own. A moment passed in silence until Albus caught sight of the scars and, blue eyes flashing furiously, he murmured, “I see. How often does this occur?”

Harry pressed his lips together, brow creased, and flexed his fingers. Severus longed to reach over and shake the answers out of the boy, but he knew the brat was still rather fragile so he settled on tucking his hands into the sleeves of he teaching robes and glaring. Albus pressed the boy’s hand and he finally answered quietly, “Every detention.”

Albus frowned, smoothing a wrinkled thumb over the raised scars. He considered the scars for several long minutes. Finally, Albus released a mournful sigh. “And the other students? How often does Professor Umbridge use the Black Quill during detentions?”

Severus grunted when Albus called that woman “professor,” but the headmaster ignored him and looked expectantly at the boy. Harry took his hand back and resumed crumbling the toast into his porridge, answering, “I think nearly everyone has had detention with her. All of Dumbledore’s Army had a week of detention after Marietta — after Umbridge found out.”

“Everyone?” Severus prodded doubtfully.

“I’m not sure about the Slytherins, sir,” Harry admitted. “For reasons I’m sure you understand, they don’t talk much to me.”

“When you return to the school, Severus, you will make enquiries among your students and speak to Minerva,” Albus said. “Once we know the true extent of the quill’s use, I shall know how to act.”

Severus gave a begrudging nod and Albus summoned an armchair. The chair settled next to Severus’ and Albus took a seat and switched topics. “Now, I’m sure you have more on your mind than detentions, Harry. Has Professor Snape explained what happened?”

Harry nodded slowly. “Blood Magic. The professor replaced my father’s DNA.”

Albus frowned, mulling over the latter part of Harry’s explanation. “DNA?”

“Genes, Headmaster,” Severus said. “The boy understands what the Blood Magic did. The far-reaching consequences haven’t been discussed. And an explanation of wizarding disowning might be warranted.”

And so an explanation followed though Severus allowed his thoughts to drift to Umbridge and from there future meetings with the Dark Lord. Both were unpleasant to think about. His attention returned to the room around him just in time to hear Albus say, “I’m sure you understand that Professor Snape is unable to publicly acknowledge you as his son. His position is precarious at best and if news got out that he has full legal access to you, I’m afraid neither of you would be safe.”

It was clear exhaustion was rapidly increasing. The boy seemed to digest the information slowly, eyes swinging to look curiously at him before returning his attention to Albus. “So I’m a Snape now; right?”

Severus started, surprised that he hadn’t thought farther past keeping the boy alive. Of course he _knew_ the boy was now genetically his, and the meddlesome old man had said as much the night before, but it just then occurred to him what that meant. Merlin, even _he_ had told the boy he as good as fathered him the traditional way. He wanted to curse himself. He was not usually this slow.

Albus’ face wrinkled in a pleased smile and he put a wizened hand over Harry’s. “You are, though it would be best not to tell anyone exactly whom has stepped in as your father. The fewer who know, the safer you two will be. I think it would be most fitting to take your mother’s name for now; at least to the public’s knowledge. I’m sure Severus won’t mind.”

He turned to look over his glasses at the dark man. Severus’ chin lifted and he spoke dryly, “I foresee no problems using the name Evans. It would be the logical step in this type of situation. There is one problem we are overlooking.” Albus motioned for him to continue. “It will soon become public knowledge that —” he stumbled over the boy’s surname, forgetting that it couldn’t be used and belatedly continued, “Harry was disowned. Many, particularly the pure blood families, will know that a complete disownment of a minor would result in almost immediate death. They will wonder who performed the ritual that saved him.”

Albus stroked his beard thoughtfully, blue eyes twinkling. “I believe in this case we will let the public speculate. It is likely they will think I played a role and draw conclusions from there. After all, the Dumbledore family is an old family and neither I nor my brother has produced an heir for it. It would not be unreasonable for me to suddenly choose one. Though I never had such dark hair, even in my youth!”

That determined, Albus turned to closely study Harry. “It is fortunate that it appears you took more after your mother than we all initially thought. I don’t think anyone would imagine that Severus was your father and his reputation, as well as your known antagonistic relationship, will keep speculation from going that route.”

“Do I have to be re-sorted?” Harry asked nervously, breathing a sigh of relief when the Headmaster shook his head, grinning knowingly.

“Not to fear, my boy. The Sorting Hat may have wanted to place you somewhere else, but there’s no reason to re-sort. Your mother was a Gryffindor, after all, and the Hat sorts _individuals_ and not _families_ , no matter what most of the the wizarding world would like to believe.”

The older wizard turned to Severus, reaching into his robes and pulling out a yellowing envelop and handing it to the dour man. “Gringotts sent this for you once Harry’s access to the Potter vaults were revoked. The goblins are a silent bunch and will most likely keep their knowledge of Harry’s new parentage quiet.”  
  
Severus took the envelop, instantly recognizing the handwriting on the front. There was his name in the looping script that he’d last seen in the margins of his fifth year potions notes. The sight made his throat tighten and his heart pound with apprehension.

“I don’t have a vault any more?” Harry asked, sounding stricken. “How am I going to pay for school supplies?”

“Nothing to worry about,” the Headmaster assured him. “It seems Lily prepared for every eventuality and she left a vault specifically for you as her son. A bit of clever wording on her part in her will.”

Severus rose to his feet, tucking the envelop into his robes. He cleared his throat, directing his words to Albus. “I will send word to Minerva and Poppy.”

He swept out of the room without a look back. The envelop felt like lead in his pocket. Lily was reaching out from the grave and it unsettled him more than he wished to admit.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've actually been debating whether I should include the text of the letter or not. The decision changes every hour.


End file.
